The Drunkard
by Rose Tinted Contact Lenses
Summary: Life as a barmaid in the Hanged Man is odd enough without men with swords and stories propping up the bar. However, she can't help but wonder exactly who the new customer is... Some violence.
1. A Man With A Story

_Very short multi-chapter. AU to _Armour,_ though my Amell's in it. This is my take on __**that**__ ending and DA2's slightly dissatisfying resolution of it. Enjoy._

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-1-**

**A Man With A Story**

They have a new customer.

He looks exhausted, and any attempt to tame too-long, ragged hair has clearly failed; he smells of several things she's determined not to think too hard about, but underneath it all is the tang of... woodsmoke? The broad build of a soldier, that will go to seed if not tended (though, from the scabbard at his hip, she'd assume it _is_). A Fereldan accent with a hint of education about it - she notices this even from the mumble. She makes out the word "ale" and little else.

She shakes her head - odd types are nothing new here.

The tankard is shoved into her hands, and she walks cautiously to the table; they do get the occasional violent type, though Varric and the Rivaini pirate can often be relied on to weed them out.

She is surprised by the nod, the muttered "thank you" as he stares at the furniture, slumped in a chair, and she can't help but look back at him as she walks away.

Varric soon arrives, leaning on the bar and openly staring. "Now _there's _a man with a story."

She only nods, wondering what has caused his fall from grace.

* * *

><p>He is there the next night, and the next. The next too. She does nothing but serve, stare, and wonder. She doesn't know how he gets the silver, and she hesitates to guess.<p>

She finds out, one night.

It's just the little things - ever-so-slightly fewer slavers on the Wounded Coast, the Guard having to be a little less vigilant. Seeing how he drinks, she's surprised he can see straight to use the sword.

The nod, the words of thanks. Then he seems to finally notice her staring at the silver, and says quietly, "The Captain pays good money." There's a hint of a humourless smile at the corner of his mouth.

The _other _Fereldan, then. Not the unnamed Champion she keeps hearing of - the woman knight. Adeline, was it?

"Aveline," he corrects her, no unkindness in the slightly slurred word, eyes still boring twin holes into the table.

A quiet "oh" finds its way out of her mouth, and she walks away knowing just a little more.

For now, that's enough.

* * *

><p>When he gets <em>really <em>drunk, to the point where he comes and leans on the bar and she prays to the Maker that he won't fall over, he begins to spout tales of Grey Wardens - _the _Warden, that Amell woman - and princes.

They all know what happened at the Landsmeet - some unnamed (kept under wraps, they all theorise) pretender, quickly vanquished by the Queen. The drunkard looks nothing like the descriptions they've heard; some scoff, laugh, others shake their head at this poor deluded soul. She can only pity from afar.

The bitterness in his voice poisons the room, and it's only her hand on Varric's shoulder, her curiosity, and the good coin that stops him throwing the man out.

* * *

><p>It's only weeks later, after the bandits and her tears, that, in one of his rare moments of sobriety, he asks her name.<p> 


	2. Bad Day?

_Thank you to all who reviewed. Here's some more story for you..._

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><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-2-**

**Bad Day?**

He soon settles into a routine.

Every night, he comes into the tavern, still mostly sober (though always hung over) and finds a table. He then proceeds to make himself as drunk as possible, drink after drink finding its way down his throat until he somehow manages to stagger to his room, usually after yet another drunken rant about the evils of the Hero of Ferelden. She watches, takes it all in silently.

The conflict of clear well-breeding and ragged, determined drunkenness would be comical if it weren't so sad.

* * *

><p>It's always her who serves him; the other serving girls just avoid him. Sneer at him, or let their eyes drift to his sword and slowly back away.<p>

Cira stares at her, turns her nose up. "I don't know why you bother. Might as well just let him drown in 'is own drink."

She shakes her head. Pity wars with curiosity. Varric was right - he's a man with a story. She has heard his rambling, but she will never truly find out what his story _is_, find out why he lies, if she abandons him now.

* * *

><p>Her mother is ill again; it's the water in Lowtown, she knows it.<p>

The Darktown healer had sighed, shaking his head, saying that if they carried on drinking the water, the illnesses would carry on.

She took note, and now Varric and Helar, the barman, pretend not to notice the small amount of ale that mysteriously disappears from their stocks.

She takes refuge from the day she's had in theorising about where the drunkard has come from, as usual - her latest idea is that he's probably a reformed pirate, disgraced from one of Ferelden's better towns and come to the shores to seek his fortune.

Certain things don't quite fit that, though - he hasn't shown any interest in slaves (as far as she knows) and he seems quite happy simply working for the Captain and drinking himself into oblivion every night.

"Ser?"

This time, he finally looks up from the table, looks at her properly, and, under the lank hair, she notices brown eyes - laughing, perpetually curious eyes, even though the man that owns them seems to be neither. It seems... wrong, somehow, that his eyes are younger than he is.

He seems to register her miserable expression. "Bad day?" Other than mumbled "thank you"s, they're the first words he's said to her, and not as slurred as usual - perhaps he isn't that drunk yet.

When she doesn't reply (she's a little too surprised) he murmurs, "Here," flicking two coins to her; he returns to frowning at the furniture, seemingly trying to find the answers to his problems in the wood of the table, not expecting any thanks.

She quietly walks away, checking them in her hands. One of them is the average silver, the other is Fereldan - useless in the Free Marches; it's old, too, seeming to have their king Maric's face on it, before she sees the small numbers inscribed on it and realises that it is, in fact, Cailan, the king who died in the Ostagar tragedy.

She looks back at the drunk one last time, pocketing the useless coin without quite knowing why. For novelty's sake?

* * *

><p>The next day, when she comes in, she receives a silent nod of acknowledgement.<p>

* * *

><p>She knew it would have to happen one night or another.<p>

She has always hated Lowtown at night - it's not as bad as Darktown, but there are always criminals, just waiting for someone defenceless enough...

Tonight, she's that someone.

She hears gruff laughs from behind her, runs for the safety of the Hanged Man. Maybe Varric or the pirate will be there.

By the time she nears it, her lungs are burning and the footsteps are frighteningly close behind her. She screams for help into the tavern's doorway before a hand grabs the back of her dress and she's dragged back onto the street, still screaming.

The knife is halfway to her throat before the familiar slurred Fereldan voice reaches her ears. "Is there a problem here?"

All heads turn to the drunk leaning on a nearby wall, and a few of the men laugh. "Look at 'im, he can barely talk."

He sighs. Drunk? Yes, definitely, but he doesn't seem to have got very far into his ale - he can still string sentences together, and this is the longest one she's ever heard. "You know, this would be _so _much easier if you all just _left_."

A slightly astonished silence.

"Is that _really _too much to ask?" He stands up unsteadily, and her attackers surge forward. "Yes?" Another sigh, and he draws his sword, looking at it in a slightly baffled way. He turns back to the men, staggering forward and occasionally catching himself on the wall. "Right, who's first?"

All she can do is watch in horror.


	3. Alistair

_When I said three chapters at most, I may have underestimated a little. It certainly won't be much longer, though, especially considering that I've got two other fic projects on the go and I'm trying not to let my brain overheat._

_Moved to T for drunken fighting._

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><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-3-**

**Alistair**

She knows little of the Chant, but she thinks that it's a good time to pray.

The minute he staggers forward, they run at him; she falls over as the one who had a knife at her throat abruptly steps away to do the same.

They fight like the thugs they are, clumsy swings intertwined with shouts and thoroughly dirty fighting; he sort-of dodges, nearly falling over in the attempt. The second time he tries, he _does. _On the ground,he knocks away the knife at his throat, ignoring the kick to his stomach and climbing to his feet, grabbing for the nearest wall and finding it.

She can do nothing but watch, open-mouthed, as he leans against the wall, trying to fend off his attackers with the sword in his other hand. One of them swipes a dagger at his leg and catches him on the thigh - he grabs the wound, grunts out a swear through gritted teeth, and has the sword through the man's chest before he can blink.

She wonders exactly _where _he's had his training, because drunkenness wars with clear experience in every move; still reeling from drink and a punch one of them gives him to the face, he spits out the blood and, before she knows what's happening, there's a flash of steel and two more of them are dead, run through like butter.

The leader looks down at the corpses, meets the drunkard's eye and runs for his life. The drunkard watches him go, breathing heavily and leaning on his sword. The minute the man's around the corner, out of sight, he slides down the wall, mumbling something that sounds like, "Aveline," and "his description". There may be a few curses in there, too.

Well, at least now she knows why the Guard Captain pays him so well.

She picks herself up off the ground, wiping away her tears and promising herself she'll fix her dress later, and runs to him.

He's groaning, and she's not sure whether the slur in his voice is from the drink or the knocks to the head he's received. "I'm... going to regret this in the morning." A bitter not-quite-laugh, and he meets her eye as she crouches over him. "Oh. There you are." He frowns in confusion.

"Ser..." She considers thanking him, offering a reward (is there anything she can _give?_), but instead asks the first question that comes to mind. "... Who _are_ you?"

He barely grinds out something that sounds like "Alistair" before he blacks out, head hitting the pavement.


	4. More Custom

_Again, thanks for the lovely response to a very experimental fic. I should have sent out all the PMs for last chapter's reviews by now, but if I haven't, here's a reminder that I'm very grateful. Enjoy. :)_

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><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-4-**

**More Custom**

He wakes to an evil, pounding headache and a cool hand on his forehead. Wait... his surprisingly _bare _forehead. He brings a hand up to touch his head, feeling it frantically.

A woman is leaning over him. "We had to remove your hair to... to help with your head wounds," she says, apologetically. Her voice is small, and she seems embarrassed.

The woman from last night... Last night? Now he remembers, and everything _hurts. _The thugs from last night, the beating he took. Everything is sort of _blurry, _though.

He becomes aware of something else as he wakes up further. Oh, _Maker..._

* * *

><p>She tries very hard not to blush as this "Alistair" checks under the sheets, eyes wide with horror.<p>

"Also to dress your wounds," she explains, sheepishly, "and it... it was Helar, not me." She... _forgets _to mention that she'd helped carry him in and made the poultices. In the same room.

He groans, trying to sit up and hastily pulling up the covers around him when he eventually manages it. It seems strange that she's seen him in a pool of his own vomit and he's worried about _nudity. _"Speaking of dressing... where are my _clothes?_"

He looks different without the hair, younger, sounds different without the slur. His accent is more pronounced now, and his eyes have lost the glaze of drink.

She wonders how to explain that they were beyond repair, had probably been falling apart for months - surely with all that silver, he could have bought some better clothing?

She gestures to the pile of clothes - all Varric would say is that he "pulled a few strings", and that makes her nervous - on the chair, the only other thing in the sparse room beside the flowers she put on the windowsill, nods, and leaves.

She can't help herself - she stops to listen at the door, partly out of curiosity and partly because she's worried about whether he'll manage to _move _after last night.

There are a few bangs, a crash and a muttered "_ow!" _, then silence. She is just considering getting Helar when the silence is replaced by footsteps, and she runs back to the bar. To report of his recovery, and to do her job.

* * *

><p>He eats like he's never seen food before, like he never will again. She tries very hard not to stare, but he notices, looking up and saying apologetically, "It's... a Warden thing."<p>

She frowns, remembering the way he fought, his slurred tales. As in, _Grey _Warden? The best of the best, noble and _frightening. _As Varric put it, "You don't screw with the Wardens." Yet this man seems... _awkward_, all the frightening grace and anger of his sword work lost once he is left to be himself. His words were the ramblings of a drunk. He _can't _be a Warden. Can he?

He meets her eye a moment, gently pushing away the food. "I'm sorry, I... never asked your name."

She gives it to him, and he smiles, something she's never seen before. "Alistair."

She nods. "You told me."

He groans, a hand on his face. "I may not have been in much of a state to remember."

He wasn't. She remembers trying her best to carry him in and stem some of the bleeding, Helar saying something about broken ribs, madly stirring poultice mixes...

He's been unconscious for more than two days. She is astonished he's even on his feet.

Even with the man sitting in front of her, the memory is enough to make her wince.

She looks more closely at him, and something occurs to her. "You remind me of someone," she says, the words slipping from her mouth without thought.

"I... ah... right." He shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through what little hair they've left him, and, even as she wonders why he's so uncomfortable, she regrets saying anything. He stands up unsteadily, looking to the bar. "I... ought to give you some more custom." Another awkward half-smile, and he limps to the bar, where this mess started. She can only watch in disbelief and regret as she waits for the trace she has seen of who he was to be wiped away.


	5. Strong Sword Arm, Weak Heart

_Sorry for the late update - that little thing called real life has been playing havoc with my fanfic. Now, however,_ The Drunkard _is back!_

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><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-5-**

**Strong Sword Arm, Weak Heart**

He starts drinking that night, and doesn't stop.

She watches him down another tankard, stepping beside him. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

He just looks at her for a moment in silence, and she holds her breath - he hadn't seemed to be a brutish drunk, but how is she meant to know? He gives her a wan smile, a shadow of the one she saw when he was sober, and says, simply, "Not even close." Before she can stop him, he's sliding more gold across the bar, and has a new mug of ale in hand.

She does all she can, and walks away.

* * *

><p>He is still there, night after night; the only difference is the smile he gives her, the little extra gold in her pocket, and the short snatches of conversation.<p>

Months later, she finds him reclining in his chair, much of his hair grown back, his face far away and his voice a murmur. "I thought she... cared. She did so many things that made me think... You know, she even said she crowned Anora _for me_." He looks up at her as if only just realising she's there, offering her another smile. "Sorry. I'm rambling. I haven't even asked you how _your _day's been."

She smiles back, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "The same as all the others."

A humourless laugh. "Like I don't know _that_ feeling." He sighs, slipping her another piece of gold. "Something for your troubles."

It's only as she walks away that she realizes something: he was talking about the Hero Of Ferelden, but... it seemed almost more with _longing _than bitterness, and he wasn't drunk.

Of course, he is soon nearly falling off the bar, but, every time she sees flashes of the man he could be, she can't help but hope. Even if it's foolish.

* * *

><p>Another new customer.<p>

The woman Varric brings with him looks around. "Does this mean you get free beer?"

"Living in a tavern?" Varric shakes his head, smiling. "If only, Hawke, if only."

She sees her direct a glance in Alistair's direction, raising her eyebrows, and suddenly can't help feeling a little protective - she doesn't know why. Maker knows, it isn't exactly normal to start to think of the drunk that haunts your bar as a _friend._

Varric's smile drops slightly. "Don't ask. Trust me."

Then he is taking her upstairs, to "talk about Blondie" - probably some sort of euphemism - and this "Hawke" is sighing, muttering, "Do we _have_ to?"

* * *

><p>Hawke returns a few weeks later, long after closing time, with a slightly scruffy man that has come to be known as "the Darktown healer", though he introduced himself as Anders. An odd name.<p>

He mutters something about it being dangerous - he _is _a well-known apostate, so they've probably used every back street available. He sees her and gives her a nod - he will probably tell her her mother's condition soon, as he does whenever he sees her, since she's a permanent fixture at his clinic - then turns back to Hawke, who is now dragging him to the bar by the hand.

He looks around, spotting Alistair - who neither she nor Varric have quite had the heart to throw out yet - and sighing to Hawke, "Maker, I miss being drunk." He shakes his head, his expression turning slightly nervous. "Justice doesn't like it, though. Lectures me for being 'inefficient'." He looks again, frowning, surprise crossing his features, before he puts on an air of conspicuous nonchalance. "Still here, Alistair?"

The other man frowns, as if not quite able to recognise him, and then Anders continues, "No, we've never met, but I've heard a _lot _about you, as well as your wonderfully entertaining drunken rants." He very obviously looks the man up and down, his lip curling. "Quite what Morgana could have seen in you... I can't exactly imagine you as a _king. _Or a _Grey Warden_, for that matter." There is a pause, and then his voice loses most of its pithiness. "You broke her heart, you know. And thank the Maker she recruited me, because I was the only one she would _talk _to about you."

Morgana Amell, the Hero Of Ferelden. Her eyes widen as she hears this; she must be mistaken, surely. She remembers the tales, the things she heard: the Hero's betrayer, a man of a strong sword arm and a weak heart...

The stool falls as Alistair stands, hand on his sword hilt, directing a look of fury at the mage. "Don't you _dare _try and use _her_... "

Anders shrugs, almost-but-not-quite casually. "Why not? _You _did."

She sees Alistair's hands curl into fists. "_Get out. Now. _Or so help me, I'll _make _you."

Anders gives him a smile and opens his mouth before Hawke takes his hand and drags him out of the tavern, muttering something about "bloody _men_".

She walks over to Alistair, who has righted his stool, and he looks up from his drink, his breathing still heavy but his expression weary.

"It's all true, isn't it?" she asks, her voice an amazed hush in the almost-silence of the abandoned pub.

He looks her in the eye for a long moment, and then nods - the Grey Warden, bastard prince, and betrayer.

* * *

><p><em>I wrote a far friendlier meeting between the two men in a different canon - <em>Pint For My Friend Here - _but I can imagine this as one of the ways it could've turned out._


	6. A Long Story

_Again, thanks for all the positive reviews! They've been very encouraging - I'm still sending out PMs, because I can be a little absentminded sometimes. You've probably guessed at the backstory here, but there are a few gaps to be filled..._

_There's a little more Anders in here, too, just written with a slightly different tone._

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><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-6-**

**A Long Story**

"It's... a long story," he sighs, slumping slightly; he stares into his drink, frowning, unable to meet her eye, and she senses the fog of alcohol still clouding his mind. When he finally looks at her, something in his eyes seems to change, and she sees resolve there. "But I've been trying to tell it for a long time, and if someone will actually _listen _to me..."

She doesn't know why - it's not like she's anyone important, like this is any of her business, but she nods.

"It should probably wait until I'm sober." Another sigh. "Drinking is for forgetting, and this... this is something I need to remember." He downs the rest of the mug, then slides a few pieces of gold across the bar; she gazes at it in amazement - it looks like a small fortune. He gets up, and begins to walk to the door. It saddens her that he seems to be getting _better _at being drunk, getting used to it; his walk isn't _quite _straight, but, unlike a few months ago, he doesn't seem to be in much danger of falling over.

Even drunk, even wobbling slightly, she sees the set of his jaw and the way he grips the sword hilt at his hip, remembers how he faced down Anders, and thinks that perhaps not _all _is lost.

* * *

><p>Her mother is shifting and turning restlessly, tangling dirty, moth-eaten blankets, murmuring in a feverish sleep; her skin is almost <em>grey.<em>

She kneels beside the bed, touching a hand to the older woman's burning cheek, waiting for her to settle, as she knows she will soon, and is startled by a voice from behind her. She turns to see Anders, the yellow of his coat drained of its brightness by the darkness in the clinic. _Just like everything else_, she thinks, her mouth twisting grimly. For a moment, remembering the confrontation in the Hanged Man, she is filled with irrational anger, but then remembers that this man has been healing her mother, and it quickly fades.

"She's stable, for now," he says, quietly.

"That's... good, isn't it?"

His voice lowers even more. "She hasn't worsened. But she isn't getting _better_, either, and..."

"Can I stay with her?" She doesn't know why she even asks; she does every night, she knows he will say yes. Maybe it's just to interrupt what he's about to say next, to give her a little longer to adjust to one more pain.

He nods. "We've run out of blankets, though."

She turns back to her mother, nodding, not caring about how cold she will be tonight, and suddenly feels a weight on her shoulders. She looks down to see his coat wrapped around her, feathers tickling her nose as she does so. She turns to thank him, finding the sight of him in a simple tunic and trousers slightly jarring; he has already moved on to a crying child, however, and the words die in her throat. She finds it hard to believe that this is the same man of barbed words and provocation she saw at the bar.

* * *

><p>Alistair is missing from the tavern when she comes in the next morning; she's unsure whether to be pleased or worried. She asks after him, but everyone shakes their head. She suddenly realises that she's never asked where he sleeps; he rents a room occasionally, but the rest of the time... she doesn't want to guess.<p>

He staggers in around noon, nursing a head wound and in armour. He nods when he sees her, directing another sarcastic smile her way. "Well, _that _went well." At her frown, he elaborates, "Slavers. On the Wounded Coast." Another of Aveline's jobs.

Suddenly, something seems to occur to him. "About last night... I promised. If you have a few minutes - ?"

She nods; the tavern isn't that busy, so she asks Cira for a break. The woman frowns, but nods.

He is already at a table, nursing a mug, when she gets back, but she sees in surprise that it's _water. _He notices, and says, simply, "I said I'd be sober." Sitting opposite him, she takes in the black rings under his eyes, the unruly hair, growing back but still much shorter than when he came in, and sees how _tired _he looks. Has he been _sleeping?_

"How do I put this? The other Warden - Morgana - " He still seems to choke on the name, and has to pause. "We grew... close."

She raises her eyebrows - so _those _rumours were true, at least. She quells the questions about the famed Grey Warden stamina that rise in her mind, and listens.

"Well, that's an understatement, actually. I... _thought _she loved me." He sighs. "There was a problem, though. King Maric was sort of... my father, and the thought of being king was... _terrifying." _He lets out a harsh, humourless half-laugh.

She is confused. Don't most _desire _power like that, being able to run a country?

"I told her, pleaded with her to keep me off the throne, and she crowned Anora." There is a faraway look in his eyes, memories clouding the brown, and he isn't looking at her any more. She think she sees a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, but she can't be sure.

"You know, she actually _smiled _at me when she did that. Like she was saying... I don't know. That she'd done the right thing?"

His face drops, and she sees the familiar stubborn set of his jaw. "And then she recruited Loghain, and I... left. He killed the closest thing I had to a _family._ Before I met her, anyway. I couldn't fight beside him. It was just... _wrong._" He puts on a very obviously false smile, shifting in his chair. "And so here I am."

"Drinking yourself to death, for the sake of pride," she mutters.

He looks at her for a long moment, eyes sad. "I... suppose you could put it like that." She sees anger flash through his eyes. "But what she did..."

"It's... different from the stories," she says hesitantly.

"The stories?" He straightens in his chair, clearly curious, and she sighs.

"You haven't heard them?"

"I've been away from Ferelden for _years, _and barely sober enough to _walk_ for most of that," he counters, eyebrows raised. "So no, I haven't heard them."

She takes a deep breath, and recounts to him the tales told of Ferelden's betrayer, watching the look of horror spread across his face as she does so.

* * *

><p><em>This story is actually going somewhere, yes. :) Those tales, and the change that is afoot, are for the next chapter. Expect a reasonably quick update (in the next week, certainly), since it's pretty much all worked out in my head.<em>


	7. Done For

_I sound like a broken record, but, again, thank you to those who read and reviewed. It's great to see, and I'm still PM-ing.  
><em>

_In case you've forgotten, since it was a few chapters ago, Helar is the barman._

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-7-**

**Done For**

They say that the Hero Of Ferelden's betrayer was a deserter from Ostagar; that he came, grovelling, to her, to ask for her protection from the Blight.

Some who met him were suspicious of him, thought he was never quite quick enough with his shield arm, but she cared deeply for him, and they became lovers.

He manipulated her, made plans to usurp the throne from the rightful queen, and, when she prevented this, left her standing at the Landsmeet, broken-hearted.

At least, that is how the _tale_ goes.

* * *

><p>He is still looking at her, eyebrows raised, mouth open. "Well, that's... not what I expected." His expression changes to one of anger. "It wasn't like that! They're saying I... I <em>manipulated<em> her?"

She nods.

"I think I need a drink." He gets up, is walking back to the bar, and she's sighing, until she grits her teeth. Not again. Not today.

She grabs his arm. There's a pause; he looks to her hand, then meets her eye. She just shakes her head. "No. You don't."

He gently takes back his arm, nods once. "Perhaps you're right. I... need to think." With that, he is walking out of the tavern, and she is left standing at the table. She shakes her head, getting back to her work.

* * *

><p>That night, long after closing time, she goes down to the bar to see Anders and Varric sitting together, nursing mugs, the apostate looking suspiciously round at the empty tavern as though something is about to jump out and attack him. Comes with the lifestyle, she supposes.<p>

Anders sighs. "It sounds like she was tipped off."

"Hawke?"

Anders shakes his head, a lock of blond hair falling into his eyes. "Doesn't know her. Nate might have. This is going to be..." He grimaces. "I almost feel sorry for him, much as it pains me."

She frowns, edging closer to try and hear the rest of the conversation, but they stop talking abruptly when they see her. "She's still stable," Anders says to her, avoiding her eye, and her heart clenches.

She places the glasses she's cleaned on the bar, nods and leaves, needing to be by her mother's bedside tonight.

* * *

><p>Alistair's there the next morning, and she notices that he's made a vague attempt to clean himself up; had a shave and a haircut, certainly, and she wonders where he found the resources to.<p>

She also wonders why he's here.

He shrugs. "Thought I might as well do _something_ before I have to report to Aveline."

He seems to have recovered a little from yesterday, but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and she knows his mind's still turning over all that he's heard. She's surprised when he doesn't order any alcohol, and he explains, "Bad idea to drink on duty." That didn't stop him _before_, but she simply nods and carries on with her work.

He's losing badly, but is still in good spirits, at a game of wicked grace (the patrons seem to be much more willing to speak to him, if a little wary, now that his drunken rants have been reduced - probably because he's been telling her the story sober, instead) when Varric enters, frowning at a scrap of parchment. He looks around, spotting Alistair, and, being very careful to look casual, wanders over to him; he passes him the parchment, nodding at it. "Hawke gave this to me. You might want to read it."

Alistair's eyes flicker down to the parchment, and he frowns, nods, and pulls out of the game with a sigh. "Guess that's me done for."

He draws a separate chair to read it, and she pretends not to watch his expression as she serves a few laughing customers. She catches the mutters coming from his direction. "Oh no you don't. Not now, not like this."

She hears the sound of the chair falling, and turns to see that he's fled from the Hanged Man.

* * *

><p>He does what he did at the Landsmeet.<p>

He ran from his throne, he ran from his duties, and now he's running from _her._ The sunlight almost blinds him as he descends the steps to Darktown, apologising when he occasionally walks into people, as is fairly normal in Kirkwall.

He's not sure where he's going, what he's doing, just that he has to move. His chest is tight, and the thought of seeing Morgana again fills him with something like nausea. Wasn't he meant to have left this all behind with the blighted ruins of his homeland?

Aveline told him to move on - loaning him Donnic's razor blade, which is better than the dagger he occasionally used, was part of that, he supposes - but he _can't._ He just _can't._ It's all still too... raw.

_Tell him I'm looking for him._

Of _course _she is, because he couldn't just _start over_; he never gets a choice in _anything_, not even drowning in ale.

_We need to talk._

No, they _don't_, they talked enough at the Landsmeet; or at least, that's what he's told himself, over and over again. He used to wonder what she'd say, if he saw her again - would she apologise, be angry with _him? _- but those days are over... aren't they? He has to admit, he's still a little curious.

_Trusting the quality of courier services, the ship should arrive soon after_ _this letter does._

Of course, she might just kill him. It would be the easiest option.

He quickens his pace.

* * *

><p>He hasn't been in for days, and it worries her.<p>

She is cleaning the tables, summoning several strange and terrible images of where he could be in her mind, when the news reaches her of a strange ship having made port, bearing the Fereldan colours.

_Royal business? _she wonders, making a mental note to mention this to Helar.


	8. Not The Only One

_Well, here's the eighth chapter of my "three-chapter weekend project". I suppose it got a little... out of control._

_Again, thank you, reviewers! This fic has had a great response so far, so I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. _

_There is a reason for this odd little first paragraph, by the way. All should soon become apparent - just not quite yet, I'm afraid._

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-8-**

**Not The Only One**

She's half-running through the streets of Lowtown to see her mother when she hears footsteps behind her. Suddenly uneasy, she looks behind her, wondering who would be out on the streets at this time of night. Only criminals, surely.

However, it's a lone stranger she sees, and one making no effort to approach her. He notices her watching him; he gives her a brief smile and nod of acknowledgement - as if trying to be _polite, _a rare sight in Kirkwall - before he ducks into a side alley, his footsteps swiftly fading.

Frowning, she shakes her head, looking around nervously and cursing her own paranoia. He was probably just... taking a walk. Maybe going to see a relative of his own? These ideas ring hollow in her mind.

She hurries onwards, keen to get off the dark streets.

* * *

><p>It takes him a moment to pull himself out of sleep, aware of the feeling of hard, cold stone beneath him and the night sky above him. He sits up, cautiously rubbing his head; as he does so, there's a clink, his other hand hitting something.<p>

A half-broken glass bottle.

He stops and simply sits, trying to piece together what could have happened. There was... the letter... he ran... After that, it's a blank, but he can taste bile, has a pounding headache and is pretty sure the bottle explains a lot - though the tingling in his arms is new. He places a hand on the wall, somehow managing to stand up and finally recognising his surroundings. _Darktown? _How did he - ?

Then he remembers. It seemed like the least likely place for her to come; Kirkwall's most important visitors - and she's the _Hero Of Ferelden, _not Morgana anymore (he ignores the ache in his chest at that thought), so she will be one of them - don't tend to head straight for its slum.

He looks up at the sound of a uncomfortably familiar voice, realising that he is still leaning heavily on the wall. "Oh. It's _you._"

The arrogant mage with the ridiculous feathered coat has his arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and is looking at him as if he's an insect - half-interested, half-repulsed. Said arrogant mage continues, "Heard there was someone passed out in an alley. I wasn't aware that it was our very own drunkard prince." He frowns then, looking to his side as if hearing something Alistair can't, and exhales, shaking his head. Then he turns back to him. "What is it this time? Been thrown out of the tavern _again?_"

Still bent double and with a palm on the wall, he glares at the other man. "No. Morgana... she's coming. To Kirkwall." He suddenly remembers the man's name: Anders, was it?

Something crosses the mage's face then, almost like... _panic? _He pulls him to his feet. "Come on. This might be important." He spots Alistair's puzzled expression at his sudden change in attitude, and adds, sighing, "You think you're the only one running away from her?"

For once, it seems that he and this mage can actually _agree _on something.

It's the last thought he has before he falls unconscious once again, barely aware of hitting the ground.

* * *

><p>The cloth is growing soaked as she mops her mother's forehead. She is still frowning, occasionally reaching a hand out as if to clutch for something that isn't there; each time that happens, she takes her hand, gently pushing it back down to the bed.<p>

Anders is out; one of the stall vendors leaned in the door and shouted about someone half-dead in an alley.

She looks around at the other patients; most of them have no-one here, no family for their bedside, and she can't help but feel sorry for them. At least her mother has her...

She looks round at the sound of the clinic door being carelessly kicked open - templars? She panics then, at the thought of the faceless metal enforcers destroying what has been built here, and stands to see - she sees a couple of Anders' assistants do the same. Instead, it's Anders himself who somehow manages to get through the door while supporting an unconscious, not-exactly-light, horribly familiar figure. She rushes to try and help him, the name finding its way out of her mouth before she can stop it. "_Alistair?_" She looks at Anders, adding, "I've never seen him _this _drunk before."

After Anders and a couple of his assistants manage to lay Alistair on a makeshift pile of blankets, the healer shakes his head. "Not _drunk. _Well, he was, but..." He frowns, stopping. "This looks like _poison._"

* * *

><p>None of them notice the dark-haired man in simple leather armour, daggers strapped to his belt, watching the proceeedings. He steps away from the clinic, melting back into Darktown's shadows and beginning the journey through its back streets.<p> 


	9. The Warden Commander

_A brief point-of-view switch here, to solve a few mysteries; the lack of clarity in the beginning is intentional. _

_Thank you again for reviewing, those of you that did, or still reading, those of you that are. Every piece of feedback is very much appreciated._

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-9-**

**The Warden-Commander**

He threads his way through Darktown at a run, hastily brushing black hair out of his eyes, a hand on a dagger hilt - as always - and his teeth gritted.

She will never forgive him for letting this happen. _Never._

He reaches Lowtown, finds his way through the crowds, and is soon ascending the steps into Hightown, his breathing heavy, ignoring the stares of the nobles and the traders.

She's in Guard-Captain Aveline's office when he finds her, leaning against the desk and in conversation with the red-haired warrior. He doesn't bother to refer to her by rank after all this time. "Morgana."

She stands up, sighing at the annoying _squeak_ of un-oiled splintmail. "Nate? Is it - ?"

"I _have_ found him, but he seems to have been... poisoned. At least, that was what I heard." His voice drops on the last few words.

She swallows, looking down at the desk, then meets his eye, her tone short. "Dying?"

"I'm not sure. He's with a healer, but - "

"Anders?"

He nods, and she begins to pull on her gloves, frowning. "I need to see him. I need _answers._"

Nathaniel and Aveline simultaneously step to block the entrance, the warrior shaking her head. "You _can't_. You'll just frighten Anders off if you burst in there now."

He quietly adds, "Alistair's also unconscious." She'll find no useful conversation there, but now is not the time to say so.

Morgana's hand tightens on her sword hilt, and he sees something flicker, grow stronger, in the magical shields she has woven around herself. There is steel in her blue eyes now, her teeth gritted. "Anders has spent years running away from me, from the Order, but I can't indulge him this if it means Alistair dies."

The drunk; he still doesn't understand why she's come all this way just to _speak _with a man who can barely _stand _unaided.

"I'm a healer as well," she adds. "How am I meant to intervene if I can't - ?"

Aveline steps forward, her voice taking on the firm tones of one who gives orders, and the two women stand almost nose to nose, staring into each other's narrowed eyes - he's astonished at the captain's gall; after all, she _is _talking to the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. "You don't." She pauses, her voice settling into slightly warmer tones. "I'll talk to Anders. See if there's anything we can do."

There is a pause, and then Morgana steps backwards, nodding once. She turns as Aveline adds, leaving the office, "I don't want to lose one of my best swordsmen, commander."

Morgana exhales, slides her gloves off and takes one in her hand. She sees to stare at it for a moment, swallowing; he wants to lean to see what's so important, but supposes that now isn't the appropriate moment. Then she looks up at him, and tries to smile - it comes out a little broken. "Thank you, Nate."

He nods, saying nothing, and the office is silent until he catches a whispered word - it sounds a lot like "sorry" - and the brief sound of some kind of magic. The _clank _of armour as she walks away is the last thing he hears before he slumps against the wall; the real world fades as sleep takes him.

* * *

><p>The clinic somehow seems even darker than before as she sits at her mother's bedside, watching her fevered sleep. She can't help turning back to Anders, her breath hitching at what she sees.<p>

He's _glowing _with magic - the only light in this place, sweat forming on his brow as he calls down spells, moving round the bed, casting furiously over Alistair's prone body, muttering half-formed words; he hurriedly scrapes blond strands from his face as he re-ties his hair again - how many times now? - then suddenly looks at her. He meets her eye for a long moment, silence hanging between them, then keeps working.

It's a few minutes later when the door to the clinic opens, and she tenses at the sound of armoured steps; instead of a templar, however, it's the Guard-Captain in the doorway. She marches over to Alistair's bed. "What _is_ this?"

"Not... _now_," Anders forces out through gritted teeth, and, as he looks up, she swears she sees _blue _in the whites of his eyes. Then it's gone, the almost blinding light of magic having fled from him, and he is leaning against the bed, panting.

"What's done this?" Aveline repeats.

Anders passes her a half-broken bottle from the bedside table. "Traces of rat poison. He's been drinking the stuff they sell on Darktown stalls." He wrinkles his nose at the thought. "Had some bad news, apparently."

Something flickers across Aveline's face then, and she begins to ask, but Anders shakes his head. "Nothing too important."

"Is he going to make it?" the woman's tones are hushed now, for his ears only, her face concerned as she looks down at Alistair.

Anders sighs, nodding. "It wasn't too advanced, so I could still extract... _most_ of it - the taint repels everything else in a Warden's blood. I can't promise a full recovery, though." Worry settles on his face as he, too, looks at his patient.

She knows she isn't meant to be hearing this, but it still makes her heart clench.

* * *

><p>She is stirred from sleep that night by the sound of a cough, shortly followed by a wretch.<p>

She sits up, untangling herself from a spare blanket - probably knitted by Lirene - as she works out where the sound is coming from. It _can't _be...

It is. She walks to Alistair's bedside to see him leaning over, dry-heaving. When he sees her, he frowns, looking up; he is still half-asleep, his eyes still half-shut, and he groans. He coughs once or twice before he can speak, looking at her properly. "What... what _happened_?"


	10. A Bottle Of Something

_Tenth chapter! Well, this is... unexpected._

_Again, thanks for the reviews - I particularly enjoyed seeing the mixed reactions to Morgana's grand entrance. There's been a lot of character ambiguity so far, but this chapter, while slightly slower-paced, should hopefully put together a few more pieces in this jigsaw._

_Enjoy. _

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-10-**

**A Bottle Of... _Something_**

She crouches by his bed, watching in concern as he manages to sit up, breathing heavily and having to lean against the wall.

"What do you remember?" she asks tentatively.

"A letter. Morgana." He swallows, looking down as if ashamed - perhaps he is. "I... ran. Drank rather a lot. There was a bottle of... _something."_

"Rat poison," Anders interjects, strolling over to stand next to her. "And _this _is why Kirkwallers don't buy drink from Darktown stalls. The traders here are desperate enough to sell you _anything_."

Now it's _her _frowning - he talks as if cases like this aren't _unusual, _as if this has happened before.._. _

Alistair suddenly looks to his side, then back to them. "There's... the Veil is _strange _here, like..." He inhales, letting a breath out slowly. "Magic."

She sees Anders tense and looks between the two men, confused, until Anders speaks. "_Very_ nice, Chantry boy_." _At seeing Alistair's expression, he adds, "Oh, she told me all about _that. _And, yes, there's a mage right in front of you."

Alistair, a _templar? Oh_. Even she can't help the new tension in her muscles at hearing that.

Then Anders looks up, eyes briefly wide before he clamps down on his surprise. "Wait... you're right. Not mine. _Hers."_

She is again confused, until she sees the mirrored reactions on their faces, and realises exactly _who _they're talking about.

* * *

><p>Nathaniel is still recovering from the effects of the sleep enchantment, groggy and more than a little disbelieving as he walks through Darktown. All he can do is pray that she doesn't know enough about Kirkwall to find the clinic; even having squired in the Marches, <em>he <em>has trouble sometimes - he's never liked this city much.

He hears the horribly familiar voice in an alley close to the clinic, not daring to turn the corner. "You're certain?"

"He's _alive, _sure..." He recognises the other voice, too - the dwarf with hair in odd places. The name takes a moment to come back to him. _Varric? _

The dwarf sighs. "Give the guy time, Morgana. He's still recovering. You'll _get_ your meeting."

In the silence, he can _see _her curt nod in his mind; she replies with a small sigh, the words quiet. "Thank you."

She strides out of the alley, looking around and trying to hide her jump when she spots him leaning against the wall, calmly watching her with arms crossed. She can't meet his eye. "Nathaniel?"

"Commander," he replies, through gritted teeth, seeing her look up at his tone and use of rank. "An explanation?"

* * *

><p>In the clinic, the two men exhale, looking at each other, and she sees their relief.<p>

"Is she... gone?" she asks, cautiously, unable to help feeling a little excluded.

Alistair nods; there is a pause before he tries to get out of bed, swaying slightly as he does so - she and Anders rush to catch him. The healer is faster, and ends up in the awkward position of having Alistair in his arms, the two men glaring into each other's eyes. Alistair steps away, swiftly snatching back his elbow, and Anders makes a production of brushing off his coat.

She rolls her eyes. Even after all that's happened...

"Why are _you _so bothered about where Morgana is, anyway?" Alistair asks sharply, placing a hand on the bed to steady himself.

Anders sighs. "I left the Wardens. Like you. Hitched a ship to Kirkwall."

"Without her permission, I assume?" On seeing the other man's nod, Alistair steps into his personal space. "And you lecture _me _about leaving her!"

She's a little astonished by the mage's nerve herself; he's defensive now, on his guard. "_I_ was her _friend. You _were _more _than that. She had Nate, and Sigrun..."

There is something she doesn't want to think too hard about in Alistair's voice, low as it is. "_Nate?_"

"Her second. And her friend_." _

Alistair tenses, and Anders has the look on his face he gains before he's about to do something very, very stupid; he hastily adds, "And that's _all. _Doesn't seem to have ever been interested, unlike - "

The other man looks up slowly, dangerously. "Unlike you?"

"Once," he admits, and a smile finds its way onto his face, "but that was before Hawke."

_The Champion? _This day just seems to get stranger and stranger.

* * *

><p>She is due to start back at the bar, so, after checking on her mother one last time, she walks back to the Hanged Man with Alistair and helps him to his room.<p>

Varric's generosity, once again, seems to get the better of him; the publican gestures to their surroundings - "On the house" - and waves away Alistair's thanks. She understands why; the man _did_ nearly _die_, after all, and now would be a good time to rest.

He smiles at her, awkwardness overcoming him again, and she realises with a start that he's sober. "Thank you. For everything. I... didn't deserve it."

She returns the smile, and says simply as she turns to walk back to the bar, "Yes, you did."

* * *

><p>Nathaniel simply looks at Morgana, the silence strained.<p>

There's a pause before she answers, fiddling with her glove, again seeming to take a long look at something on it - she's clothed in a simple tunic and breeches, and it's the only piece of her armour left on. "Yes." She sighs. "Maker, I hate politics."

Someone at the entrance to the office clears their throat, and she stands, placing the glove on the desk as she walks to the familiar dwarf in the doorway, frowning. "Varric?"

"He's at the Hanged Man," is the simple reply.

"Thank you again. Expect me shortly." She nods, walking back to Nathaniel, and there is something desperate in her eyes now, the formality gone. "You'll understand, I promise you. But this... this I have to do alone. I'm sorry." Then she is walking out of the door, giving him one last look over her shoulder.

He waits until her footsteps have faded, and then, his curiosity overcoming him, steps over to the desk; there seems to be nothing particularly special about the glove when he picks it up and turns it over in his fingers, the leather supple but not in any way magical or designed with looks in mind. He stops as he feels a slight distortion in the material, and brings it to the light, looking more closely and frowning at what he sees.

Branded into it, in clean, simple lines, is a rose.


	11. People, Not Myths

_Thank you for the reviews! (Again.) I'm astonished that this fic has hit the 10,000 word mark, and they're very probably the reason. PMs are being sent; forgive my forgetfulness.  
><em>

_This story isn't quite finished, but we're getting to the end of it fast. This chapter took a while longer to write, because I wanted to get it emotionally "right" and have a halfway satisfying confrontation. Enjoy.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-11-**

**People, Not Myths**

Few except her look up at the woman that walks into the tavern; she frowns, noticing that the newest customer is wearing _breeches. _The stranger looks cautiously around the bar, then takes a stool and begins to talk to Helar. After a while, she nods, looking around again, then heads upstairs.

She can't help the odd feeling, the prickle at the back of her neck, and, slowly, keeping her distance, she follows...

* * *

><p>His eyes open as he feels something in the air he can't quite explain, and he frowns. He becomes aware of that old, familiar magic - it's warm, almost comforting. <em>No, she <em>_**can't **__be..._

He sits up, his mind conjuring up associations from that warmth before he can stop them: nights at camp, the sheer _awkwardness _of tents, sword training, a rose... He regains his focus, for once glad of the templar training, and shakes the images out of his head, thinking that he must have dreamt it. The feeling stays with him, though; after a moment, he takes the chair next to the bed, finally resigning himself - he clasps his hands and _waits, _unsure whether to be relieved that he'll finally have an answer or to be sick_. _It's not like he can _run _anywhere, anyway.

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, _she_ is standing in the doorway. He looks up, swallowing as he realises that she looks almost exactly the same - a couple of new wrinkles, maybe, but she still hasn't cut her hair differently, or started to wear dresses; she has the same posture, the same eyes, as when she was _his. _He has to look away then, something uncertain rising in him.

He waits for her to move, attack him, _something, _but instead she stays there, simply looking him up and down, as if to drink him in. Then she speaks, her voice, as it almost always was, quiet. Being a commander may have changed that, but he doesn't remember her ever being a shouter - she was all careful control, icy politeness and veiled threats. "Considering you've been getting so drunk you had rat poison without knowing what it was, I'd expect you to be in a worse state."

He has no _idea _what to say to that; feigning calm and noticing that she hasn't got her sword with her - that doesn't mean she doesn't have a dagger tucked away somewhere, and he's _unarmed_, still slightly weak - he tries, "Been a while, hasn't it?"

She almost - _almost_ - laughs at that, her lips twitching and a snort escaping, finally walking up to the chair and looking him in the eye. "I'm not here to harm you." Her tone is blunt, carefully passionless. "Too much has passed for that, and Ferelden can't afford to lose one of its best Wardens."

So _that's _it. One of Ferelden's best Wardens. Never mind the wonderful year of awkward stumbling in the dark, trying to gauge each other; the silent looks that said, well, _everything_; of peeling back the layers to find the frightened, shy apprentice he saw at Ostagar. No, her concern is purely... commanderly.

He should have known. Well, not _this _time. She... _they_ won't get him back.

"I came here to get _away _from the Wardens," he says, his voice low, angry, glaring at her. "From you."

Something changes in her then; she sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing a palm on her forehead, and, for the first time, he realises how _tired _she looks. Her eyes are weary as they meet his. "I'm not here to fight you, Alistair. After... everything, why would I want to? You _must_ listen to me."

So she's playing _that _game, is she? He stands, hearing the fury in his own voice. "After what you did, I don't have to listen to _anything _you say! You threw away everything we had!"

She does the same, and he jumps at the hand on his shoulder. "Loghain _died, _Alistair_. _A Warden had to die killing the Archdemon. His soul was destroyed. He _was_ executed, just... differently."

He pushes her hand away. "You didn't know that when you recruited him. He was a traitor, and he died a _hero!"_

She shakes her head, and something in her eyes cracks, splinters, as they meet his. Maybe it's the facade. "Not to me. The _true _hero of the Blight... wasn't me. He left a long time ago, and chose to drown in self-pity." He wants to step back at the anger in her words, and belatedly realises that they're almost nose-to-nose. Her breathing slows, and she continues, more calmly, "Do you know why I'm here?"

"I wouldn't be standing here, having this conversation if I did."

She sighs. "Anora thinks you're a threat to her rule. She's afraid there will be an uprising. It's why she started the smear campaign against you."

"Mmm. Apparently, I'm 'The Hero of Ferelden's cowardly betrayer'. So, _Hero_, I suppose you went along with that?" He hadn't meant it to come out quite so venomous.

"Don't call me that," she says, and he is surprised by the ice in her voice. "You're Alistair. I'm Morgana. We are _people_, not myths. And, no, I didn't. I objected to it, because I knew it wasn't true."

"Why should _that _matter? I'm only a harmless _drunk_, after all."

"No, you're _not. _First there are the tales, and then, knowing her, she'll put a price on your head next." His horror - but utter lack of surprise - at this statement fights with satisfaction that, even now, she still thinks Anora's a bitch. "Wardens give up all titles, all family names. If you're a public member of the Grey, you can't be the betrayer that ran. He'll still be across the sea somewhere, and you'll be in Amaranthine. Perhaps the mysterious betrayer dies. Either way, he is not _you_, and I will _not _let the Queen lay a _hand_ on you while you are under my command." He is silent, thinking it over. "Consider yourself lucky that I found you before Anora did. My ship sails a week from now. Whether you're on it, I leave down to you. I will give you the best protection I can." As she walks out of the room, she adds, quietly, "Myself."


	12. Mistakes

_Again, thank you very much for the reviews! There will probably only be two more chapters after this._

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-12-**

**Mistakes**

She watches the woman she now knows as the Hero of Ferelden walk past her, then steps into Alistair's room, closing the door softly behind her.

He is sitting on the bed, his head in his hands; he looks up when he sees her, giving her a weary smile. "I... guess you heard that?"

She nods, sitting down next to him. "You aren't going to consider it, are you?"

He looks at her, and suddenly she can see the soldier, tired of Blights, war and power games; there's a sense of having... _seen _things in his eyes, years she couldn't have observed, things she can't know. "I don't know. I just don't know." He looks down, a hand on his face. "The Wardens were... they were my _home. _And then Loghain... But there was always her." He stops. "I don't know. She says she had her reasons." His eyes are on her again, and he asks, half-jokingly, "Why, do you think I should stay?"

She wants to say _yes. _She wants to say that he has helped Kirkwall, helped _her_, but instead, she replies, "Your choice."

* * *

><p>Anders greets her when she walks into the clinic, and there's something hopeful in his eyes. "Her fever's broken."<p>

For a moment, she sags with relief, then runs to her mother; when she finds her, she is still asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily. She sits next to the bed, looking to Anders. "Will she - ?" _Wake up? _are the words she doesn't speak.

He nods. "She's still very weak, and..." He sighs. "She's old. She can't fight it off as well as the rest of us. But keep up with the ale, and she should be all right. Well, maybe drunk, but _healthy_ and drunk." He smiles, and she returns it; for a moment she can't help thinking that Hawke's lucky to have him, this occasionally arrogant, tactless, wonderful mage.

* * *

><p>Nathaniel's anger has faded by the time Morgana returns, looking more tired than he's ever seen her, collapsing in an armchair in the office after placing a pie in the other room. "I've made the offer. And... I'm sorry that I didn't explain. We need the Warden who helped stop the Blight."<p>

He nods, then thinks for a moment, the question on the tip of his tongue; should he ask it? It finds its way out of his mouth anyway. "Why a rose?" He still finds it hard to believe that he looked at any of her possessions without her permission, and is prepared for her anger.

She sits up sharply, looking at him, then shakes her head. "It's... hard to explain. Memories, Nate. They were given to me during the Blight, by..." She stops. "Before a few mistakes were made."

She looks at the pie. Ah. The Grey Warden appetite.

She is halfway to the door before he asks softly, "Mistakes?"

She turns in the doorway, their eyes meeting, and she says, quietly, "His as well as mine." She doesn't look back as she walks into the next room.

* * *

><p>Nathaniel looks up from his parchment at the <em>clank <em>of armour in the entrance to the office. The addition of sensing another half-song in his blood, another with the taint, comes almost simultaneously.

It takes him a moment to recognise the man standing in simple mail at the doorway, sword sheathed at his hip, still pulling on a gauntlet; that's probably due to the fact that the man appears to be standing without help (he's taller than Nathaniel guessed he'd be), and his expression is grim, his eyes firm on his.

_This _is a man who might, in another life, have been king.

"Is the commander in?" He adds, "Warden business."

"Not yet," Nathaniel replies. "She's out in Kirkwall. Do you want to wait?"

Alistair shakes his head. "I'll find her." He walks away, but then Nathaniel hears his footsteps stop; he enters the room again, and looks at him, frowning. "You're Nate, aren't you?"

He sighs. "Nathaniel, please."

"Right." Then Alistair is walking down the stairs, past the viscount's office, and Nathaniel is left wondering what in Andraste's name _that _was about.

* * *

><p>It takes him a moment to breathe when he spots her - seeing her in armour knocks it out of him all over again. Light brown hair over her shoulders, a cautious hand on her sword (<em>still,<em> even though he tried to get her out of the habit during their lessons, and it's _Starfang, _still_) _like it's about to fall out of its scabbard, and... _splintmail. _Dragonbone, but splintmail all the same. It's like ten years is nothing - this is still _Morgana, _the woman that... travelled with him.

He finds her browsing apples in Lowtown, turning one over suspiciously, and overhears her saying, "These are rotten."

"Wha' of it?" the trader replies.

"It's perhaps not the best idea on Thedas to sell them," she says softly, and then he has to stop himself raising his eyebrows, remembering her usual diplomacy, as the conversational politeness is suddenly dropped. "Unless you want to _poison _your customer base. Expect a report to the city guard if you don't clean this up. They're always glad to find another crooked seller." She gives the scowling man a smile, placing the apple carefully back with the others, and walks away from the stall.

He can see the exact moment to the _second _when she spots him, because she stops, swiftly stepping round a few people in the crowd and finding her way to him. By the time she does, he's casually leaning against a wall, watching her approach; she reaches him, and he doesn't miss the subtle movement of her eyes, taking him in. "Have you made your decision?"

"I _have_," he replies, then counters with, "But why now?"

What?"

"Why even bother? I was here, perfectly happy, but you still felt the need to come and... _rescue _me. Not kill me, or take me to Anora."

"The Wardens only take the best. Besides, as I said, there's too much history to just let you be killed..." She flexes her hand, gritting her teeth and looking away from him as his eyes fall to it; he frowns as a spark of recognition flares inside him. _No, they can't be... Not __**that**__ pair... _She tries to snatch it away as he takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her palm, but he's already felt the telltale shape on the left gauntlet.

"You kept them," he mutters, eyes still on her hand. "Why would you _do_ that? You could easily have found better..." The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks, and his eyes meet hers as he breathes, "After all this time?"

There is a pause, and then she nods, her eyes angry as she asks, "What did you do with yours, throw them away?"

Wordlessly, he shows her his right palm, the rose on the opposite side, and, in a quiet corner of the Lowtown market, two warriors stare at each other in silence.


	13. Involved

_Thank you so much for the reviews! Things are all coming to a head, so this is the penultimate chapter... Enjoy._

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-13-**

**Involved**

She looks up from wiping the tables as she sees the man in the doorway. His posture is straight-backed as if taught, dark eyes flickering round the room, hands carefully relaxed and away from the daggers at his hips. There is something weary in his eyes she has seen before; when he takes a table, he sits with a hand to his mouth, gaze set upon the wall, as if in thought.

Then she recognises him. The man following her. She begins to slowly back away from him, but he looks up and sees her, a spark of recognition flaring in his eyes; he gives her the hint of a smile, raising his mug slightly, and she flees.

* * *

><p>She steps into the clinic, hearing voices; one is of Anders, another is...<p>

She runs to her mother's bedside to see her sitting up on the pillows - her skin is pale, the smile she gives weak, but she is _awake_. She holds a cup of some kind of herbal tea, her hands shaking slightly; Anders sits by her bed, watching her with concern, occasionally turning his head to check on his other patients and staff.

She kneels by her mother's bed, holds her hand. "Mum?"

Her mother sighs, darting a glance to Anders, then asks, "What's all this about you getting involved with Grey Wardens?"

She frowns, blushing slightly, before muttering, "It's... a long story..."

* * *

><p>Morgana's eyes dart to the market around them, and he sees her swallow. Her voice is small as she returns to him his own words. "After all this time?"<p>

He doesn't know quite what to say. He remembers sitting for hours, gazing into candlelight, unable to get her words - and her eyes - out of his head; thinking of the gauntlets, still tucked into his belt. Finally accepting what he'd been fighting for years and slipping them on the next morning, the leather still as supple as during the Blight.

The Blight - the best year of his life; his mouth twitches at the irony, and he returns to himself. His mouth is dry as he responds, shrugging, throwing her a smile he can barely maintain. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for good tailoring."

When she finds her voice after a moment of disbelief, she asks quietly, "Are you coming with me?"

The smile drops from his face then, before he responds, equally lowly, "Being a Warden is all I'm good at. They were my _home._" He brightens slightly. "Besides, it's been too long since I've smelt wet dog."

Her mouth twitches, and, in that moment, he knows that he's won, broken through. "You haven't changed, have you?"

There's a pause as he looks at her, considers, an involuntary smile spreading across his face. "I _think_ I have. _You, _however_..." _ There's a moment of eloquent silence, and she gives him the smallest smile he's ever seen, just a trace of the Morgana he remembers showing through.

Then she clamps down on it, back in Warden-Commander mode, and says, "We should get back to the Viscount's Keep. Nathaniel will be waiting..."

He nods, beginning to follow her; there's a loud _clank _as her elbow collides with his. He hears a muttered, "Bloody splintmail," and then she looks to him, eyes daring him to say something; she watches the market around them, finally speaking again. "Ten years aren't _nothing. _You _left _me, Alistair."

"And you waited," he counters, dodging two women shouting at each other in Kirkwall accents. "Why?"

He sees her swallow out of the corner of his eye, and there's a pause; he almost misses what she says next in the bustle of the market. "You were my first. Things like that don't fade easily."

"No," he agrees, "they don't." His eyes meet hers, and she looks away first.

"I've missed you," she says softly, and an awkward silence follows them back to the Keep.

* * *

><p>Morgana walks into the office, him a step behind her, and frowns at the note on the table. He reads it over her shoulder, uncomfortably aware of how much he's intruding into her personal space.<p>

_Have decided to find Anders (re-recruit?). Will try to bring him in gently. H.M. _

"Nate's shorthand," she explains, distractedly. "I think he means the Hanged Man."

He frowns. "But didn't Anders _leave?_ Nathaniel knows where he is?"

She nods, slumping in a chair behind the desk. "Well, he found you. Anders was treating you at the time." She sighs, and there is something sad behind her eyes. "It seems I can't let him run away any longer."

* * *

><p>As night falls over Kirkwall, the Champion and an unshaven apostate threading their way through the back streets to the tavern, it begins to rain.<p> 


	14. Warden Business

_Thanks are at the bottom._

_The finale - hopefully, this should clear things up for our lovely barmaid, too, whom I've left a little... hanging in the lurch._

_Brian - Morgana's warhound. Yes, really... Brian._

* * *

><p><strong>The Drunkard<strong>

**-14-**

**Warden Business**

Anders instinctively takes a step back, nearly bumping into Hawke, as he recognises the dark-haired figure, sat straight-backed on a _tavern chair. _Still very much the noble's son, after all this time - he's unsure whether to laugh or run as fast as his legs can carry him. "Nate?" He's ashamed of the frightened murmur that escapes him, blinks tightly as he tries to ignore Justice's murmuring in the back of his head. (Yes, they know him - there's no need to tell him _again._)

"Anders," Nathaniel says mildly, giving him a smile, but he's known him too long - the man is _very, very _sober, and there's something sharp behind those dark eyes. This man took down three Wardens _before _he Joined, and little has changed; Anders takes in the subtle clank of mail under the man's shirt, sees the daggers tucked in a way that is carefully not intrusive to his belt, and backs away further, a confused Hawke stepping to his side.

The other man stands, the chair scraping from under him, his smile growing wider. "Pounce-A-Lot is doing well. A drink?"

"Isn't that your cat?" mutters Hawke in his ear, and he nods shortly, his arms instinctively around her waist, Justice's half-whispered words turning louder in his head, that horrible, delicious power building in his veins... _No. _Not now, not in the middle of a _tavern... _He holds her hand - a little too tightly, he knows, but he _can't _let go - fighting for control.

"It doesn't have to be this way," Nathaniel sighs, beginning to walk towards him. "I though we were... friends of a sort, once. We need your talents - you were the best healer we _had. _Nothing's changed. I can't just let you _run._"

"You did in the Deep Roads. I suppose Morgana authorised this?" The thread is beginning to snap, even the feel of his lover's fingers tight on his wrist not enough to keep him _Anders._

The man's eyes drop to the ground briefly, then flicker back to his. "I... Not as such. She will understand."

Half the pub knock over their chairs, making for the exit; the other half sit, paralyzed, in stunned silence.

There is a deep breath behind him, the sound of her sword being drawn, and his tether to the real world finally snaps; he can feel the Fade through him, Justice - _Vengeance - screaming _bile and hatred_, _and looks down in horror, waiting to see the familiar blue lines beginning to spread from his wrists...

"_Stop!"_

They all look round at the also-familiar voice: one of a barmaid, with ragged, simple clothes, her hair brushed out of her face hastily and without vanity.

_Her mother. _He sags, remembering his patient, who he is, Hawke's voice soft in his ear, her hold on his hand still tight, the spirit's voice fading. "Shhh, love, shhh..." Exhaling, he looks up.

"At least take it outside?" the woman tries, a pathetic attempt at a joke.

The moment is broken, his posture relaxing, Hawke quietly sheathing her sword, Nathaniel taking his hands from his daggers.

That, of course, is the moment that Morgana and Alistair decide to make their appearance.

* * *

><p>Alistair looks to Morgana, hand on his sword hilt, noting that she's the same, instincts honed through a year of training. They sense the Fade, the magic - now familiar to both of them - swirling around, and he sees her wince at the torn Veil. "Anders," she gasps, recovering quickly with a muttered, "<em>Shit,<em>" and standing straighter. A swift nod, blue eyes meeting hazel under dripping hair, and then they're in the tavern, swords drawn together.

All eyes turn to them when they enter, the hum of magic beginning to dissipate; in the unexpected calm, she smoothly sheathes her sword, and asks, dangerously quietly, "Anders? Nathaniel? A word?"

He sees the Champion - his eyes flicker to Morgana, the Hero; it almost makes him smile, the absurdity of having two legends in the same _room _- step in front of Anders. "A word, or a fight?"

She sighs, holding unarmed palms out in front of her; he doesn't miss the tiny, dancing magicks round her palm, but knows she's counting on Hawke to. "Simply a word. Please, cousin." He frowns at her in surprise - it seems to run in the family, then, this whole "heroic" thing.

Hawke turns sharply at the hand on her shoulder, at Anders' nervous, small smile as he steps past her. "I have... unfinished business," he says softly, gently releasing his hand from hers and adding, "I'm not going without a fight."

"That's what I'm worried about," she mutters, but relents, stepping back and allowing the four of them to walk past her, out of the tavern.

She looks at those who she now knows to be four Wardens, hands crossed in front of her old dress, shivering.

Her eyes fall to Alistair instinctively; the man is almost unrecognisable from the bedraggled ex-warrior who arrived at the tavern. She expects to be looked through, ignored, by the man who was once _her_ drunk - ridiculous as it is to think that way - but is now once again one of the feared and envied Grey Wardens, in full mail, standing taller than she saw him even on his jobs.

She sees the way he looks at the splintmailed woman beside him - the Hero - and notices that he can't seem to keep his eyes off her for a second; the Hero - Morgana, he called her - is making an effort to keep her eyes firmly fixed on the tavern around them, but she doesn't miss the way her eyes similarly dart to him, her hand edging ever closer to his as they walk beside each other. She spots the woman quickly pulling her hand away when she notices this, and bites back a surge of rage, remembering the man beside her haggard and unshaven, slowly drinking himself to death because of what this "Hero" did.

Instead of looking through her as he ducks out of the tavern, he turns, giving her an unfamiliar smile; one with no stress or sarcasm in it, simply one of joy. A smile, for once, only as old as he is.

She returns it, wondering if she will see him again, ignoring the stinging behind her eyes.

She waits until he's out of her sight, then, as quietly as possible, follows them.

* * *

><p>"Nate," the Hero says, standing outside in the soaking rain, shaking her head, "<em>Why? <em>I thought we'd talked about this._"_

"I _had _to," protests the dark-haired man that frightened her so. "It was my duty as a Warden!"

"It's insubordination. You saw how this could have ended. You're going to have to prove you're worth trusting again." The woman's voice is smaller as she adds, "I'm sorry. I know you were trying to do the right thing..."

"Morgana" - the name sounds strange in her head, used as she is to the tales - turns to Anders, walking towards him; she doesn't miss the slight step back he takes, and sighs. "You're my best _friend, _Anders. We were both locked in that Tower together. Why do you think I let you run?"

She frowns. Wait - he was running from his _childhood friend?_

Surprise crosses the healer's face, and he steps towards the other mage. "But... I ran from you. From the Order. And you... _let me?"_

"Anders," Morgana says, and there is a quiet finality to it, "The Wardens have tracked you down..." She seems to think. "... Four times, at the last count. Who do you think told them there would be another day, that you were no danger?" A smile crosses her face then, and the woman shrugs. "We could so easily be in opposite places." She adds, quietly, the words hard to make out amidst the pattering of the rain, "Pounce has his own basket. Right next to Brian's. I feed them both every day."

Anders smiles, sadly. "Thank you. Really. But I guess this situation is a little... tricky."

Morgana shakes her head, her own smile growing wider, and quickly closes the distance, enfolding him in a tight hug and murmuring something in his ear, Alistair staring at her in disbelief. "I never saw you. As far as the Wardens know, you're lost, somewhere in Antiva. Sunny beaches, plenty of assassins to have conveniently killed you." The mage steps back, looking at her, and Morgana continues, passing him a coin, "Drink's on me." Another. "And one for my... cousin? Second cousin?" She sighs. "I wish we'd met in more pleasant circumstances."

Anders grins at her, starting to make his way back into the tavern. "Now _that's _the Morgana I know."

In the doorway, she flattens herself against the wall to let him through, and watches the other three Wardens walk into the wet night.

* * *

><p>Alistair wakes in a soft bed, taking a moment to get used to the morning light streaming through his window - it falls onto only slightly crumpled white sheets.<p>

* * *

><p>He remembers last night at Viscount's Keep, Morgana offering to lead him to his room to the night.<p>

Nathaniel had raised an eyebrow at that, saying nothing.

He'd nodded. "That would be... lovely, actually. You know, the Keep is always bigger than I think it is..." He'd been talking to fill the gaps, desperately trying not to think too hard about what he was hoping for, what she might mean. After all, she _knew _how he feels... how they both feel, and she'd said nothing.

She'd gestured to him, walking from the office and upstairs another level. He'd pretended his pulse hadn't ratcheted up about five notches, and... were his palms _sweating? _

She stopped outside a simple door, one of five around them; there was a long silence, neither of them oblivious to the tension in the air. "My room?" he asked cautiously, not daring to voice the unspoken question between them. _Or ours?_

She took a deep breath, smiling and opening the door. She gestured into the room, and asked him, "How are the nightmares?"

"Well, it's not a Blight, at least. Better, I suppose."

"I... found the same," she replied quietly, and he realised with a sharp pain to his chest that he'd never been around to see her learn to block them out, like he'd promised; his hand was out before he could stop it, gently tucking a strand behind her ear, and he felt her breath become uneven under his fingers. "I'm sorry," he murmured softly, the sound echoing in the empty wooden hallway. "I should never have left." In that moment, every thought of Loghain and of the years passed was gone, replaced by an overwhelming... _love_ for the woman in front of him.

Their eyes met for a long moment, and then she said sadly, "No. You shouldn't." She slowly stepped away from him, giving him an unsteady effort at a smile. "I... need to prepare. Pack for the journey. You should, too." She walked quietly to a door next to his, opening it and looking back at him with one more, similarly shaky, attempt to smile. "Goodnight, Alistair."

He'd been left staring at a closed door, still trying to adjust his breathing, before finally sighing and trudging into his own room.

* * *

><p>He half-falls out of the bed, running a hand through mussed hair, then washing quickly and dressing in the clothes that have been mysteriously laid out on a chair for him. How - ?<p>

_Aveline, _he realises with a smile, as he sees the neat stitching, the small repairs. Of _course she's in cahoots._

His heart sinks at the thought of seeing Morgana again after last night, and it takes him a moment to pluck up the courage to open the door and descend the stairs to the office she and her second seem to have occupied for the time being.

She, Nathaniel, Aveline and Donnic look up as he enters the room; Aveline is sat behind the desk, scribbling furiously at something, Morgana and Nathaniel sat _on _it, tucking voraciously into bowls of stew clutched against their chests. The clattering of spoons and the inhalation of the food - symptoms of the cursed Grey Warden appetite - makes him smile, and Donnic, sitting in a wooden chair near his wife, hands him a bowl and spoon from a nearby table.

He peers cautiously into his breakfast. "This is... _brown._"

"Marcher's stew," Donnic explains, reclining as much as one can in a highly uncomfortable, straight-backed wooden chair. "Not grey, but..."

"Thank you," Alistair interrupts hastily, not about to protest to food. "Honestly, it looks delicious." He has to admit, it does.

He takes a seat, looking up and realising that he's unconsciously sat opposite Morgana. "Morning," she says, softly, her eyes meeting his before darting away just as quickly.

"Morning," he replies, wondering what to say, before despairing; they need to get this out in the open. "Look, we need to talk..." He sees out of the corner of his eye the other occupants of the room looking up interestedly.

"There's time. We _will_ be trapped on a ship for months, after all." She attempts a laugh. She's still not meeting his eye, and something in him cringes at the thought of months stuck together in _this - _whatever _this _is.

His thoughts return to the lonely figure standing at the bar, the same one that had mopped her mother's brow next to him, and he says, thinking aloud, "There's something I have to do before I pack."

* * *

><p>Morning light filters through into the Hanged Man, and she sighs, her mind still with the Wardens.<p>

She almost doesn't hear the swing of the door, but instantly spots the man stepping through it - the long, slightly loping strides and the awkward grin are now as familiar as the tavern itself to her. "Alistair?"

"Ship leaves tomorrow," he says, looking at her in a way she can only call... apologetic? "I... wanted to say goodbye. And thank you. I know it can't have been easy, with me, and your mother, and..."

Her arms are around him before he can finish the sentence, and ignoring the stares of the patrons near them, she says, "I'm proud of you."

He leans in briefly before he gingerly steps away to lean against the bar, musing with a smile, "I think I've rather come to like Kirkwall. Even the parts with the... rats..." He trails off, but then his high spirits return. "I'm sure there will be opportunities to return here on... er, Warden business. Even if 'Warden business' is getting the disillusioned troops a good pint."

She grins, but her heart is sinking into her boots. "You don't need to..." Pretend he'll remember her, that he'll come back, she doesn't finish.

He shakes his head, interrupting, "Oh no, none of that. I've broken too many promises already." There is something sad behind his eyes as he asks, "One last drink, to wish for a safe journey?" He adds quietly, "Please?"

He seems relieved when she nods, coming back from Helar with a couple of flagons (his carefully ordered to be water), and he asks her as she sits, "Your mother, is she - ?"

She sighs. "She'll make a recovery. This time. We have to be... careful. You of all people know the water here's... off."

He nods, seeming to mull it over. "Seen Anders?"

"Still in the clinic, still being an arrogant arse." She smiles. "I think... I _hope_... Hawke's doing right by him. He seems more relaxed than he was, but that might just be the calm before the storm." She takes a mouthful of ale. "How are you and... and the Hero?" _Morgana _still seems too odd on her tongue.

"Me and - ?" He chokes slightly. "Is it _that_ obvious?"

She gives a slow, exaggerated nod.

He sighs, fiddling with the handle and twisting the tankard round on the table. "The truth is, we aren't... well, _anything. _I don't think she's ever quite forgiven me."

"For _her _recruiting the Wardens' _murderer?" _She may _just _have warmed to Alistair's side of the story in the time she's known him, she admits.

"For leaving her like that, no questions asked. For 'drinking myself to death, for the sake of pride'." He raises his eyebrows on the last sentence, and she winces, hearing her own words quoted to her. He gives her a wan smile. "You were right, by the way. Maybe the taint offered some protection, but even a Warden metabolism can't take quite _that _much. And... You were the only one here who ever spoke to me. I _did _notice."

She wonders just how much "the drunkard" slumped at the table noticed, a twinge of regret running through her.

Long after closing time, left with the promise of a letter, she sits at a table in the darkened tavern and turns the useless Fereldan coin over in her fingers, thumbing it and watching the candlelight shine on it. A reminder of times past, of second chances.

Helar is unusually quiet, darting glances at her he thinks she doesn't notice, and Varric lays a hand on her shoulder.

She stands, breaking through her trance and making to begin cleaning the tables, but he shakes his head. "Think your ma could use some company."

Slipping the coin into her pocket and stepping out into the warm spring air, her eyes never fall from Viscount's Keep as she walks towards not the clinic but her home.

* * *

><p>As they sail for Amaranthine, he watches Kirkwall until it fades from sight, absorbed in the mists.<p>

He's never been seasick, but the rocking of the ship makes him distinctly uneasy, and he keeps making excuses to get out of his cabin (he still can't believe Morgana gave him a _cabin _rather than putting him with the other crew, what was she thinking?) and catch some of the sea air.

The fifth day after they set sail, Morgana comes up to the deck, leaning beside him and watching the waves. With the sea breeze and the sound of the men further down the ship, he almost misses her words. "I've been thinking... I don't want to do this on my own. Not again. Alistair..." She looks at him as if waiting for an answer, and he knows, somewhere inside him, that he has to give one.

"You don't have to," he replies, eyes once again fixed on the water, not meaning it in a Warden comrade sense.

He jumps at the fingers that thread their way cautiously through his own, at the look she gives him as she tells him quietly, "I hope you know what you're saying."

He grins. "Have you _heard _the things that come out of my mouth?" He sobers, adding, eyes on hers, "This, though, I'm sure of."

She exhales sharply then, her voice uncertain, asks, "Do you... do you still...?" He doesn't need to hear the muttered end of the question. _Love me?_

"Never stopped," he replies simply. The two of them smile at each other, the sea air whipping her hair into her face; it's unsure which of them moves first, but it's a kiss of lost time and salt, the two of them clinging tightly to each other and trying to find their breath. They ignore the wind buffeting them and the sudden absence of noise from the crew, and as they separate, her breath still on his face, he murmurs, barely audibly, "Your cabin or mine?" He's unable to stop his grin as she promptly steps away, muttering something under her breath - it grows wider as he makes out what sounds like "Chantry boy" and "created a monster". She's smiling, though, her hand still tightly on his, telling a very different story.

* * *

><p>Amaranthine comes into view a few weeks later, and, as they walk to the Vigil's Keep, Nathaniel smiling at the thought of seeing his old stomping ground again, Alistair stops, noticing Morgana do the same.<p>

"Do you feel that?" he asks, seeing her nod, smiling from ear-to-ear; it's an old, familiar sensation, one he's quite sure is lying to him, the hum in his blood intensifying, becoming richer, until he sees the gates and the guards standing at them, bearing the shields with the familiar griffon insignia.

He sees Morgana watching him carefully, waiting for a reaction, and he simply smiles, looking at the Keep, feeling the hundreds of other presences ahead of them. The Grey.

He looks at the woman he loves beside him, feels his family-in-arms waiting beyond the stone walls, and the realization hits.

He's home.

•

* * *

><p><em>Well, here we are - my first "proper" multi-chapter fic, wrapped up. This ended up roughly five times its planned length, with about four times its estimated characters, an utterly unforeseen Anders vs. Alistair plotline, Nathaniel, Aveline, Donnic, and surprising character exposition on Morgana and Anders' friendship - by the way, this assumes that Anders has kept himself enough in control at this point that Nathaniel (and so, Morgana) are unaware of his possession.<em>

_This is one "alternative ending" that could have happened for _Armour, _Morgana and Alistair's Blight story, which explains things like her original templar-phobia, how the sword training came about (as well as the gauntlets), and the rain references in this story._

_It's been a brilliantly fun experiment; thanks for all the regular feedback and support - if you've enjoyed reading this half as much as I've enjoyed writing it, I will be very, very happy._

_~Rose_


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